


There it Goes Again (A Song To Break His Silent Heart)

by PersonyPepper



Series: Geralt Whump Week 2019-2020 [5]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Episode Fix-It: s01e06 Rare Species, Episode: s01e06 Rare Species, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Uses His Words, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Lonely Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Roach is the Best (The Witcher), geralt has some Sad Wanks Tm, ive been wanting to contribute to this Classic theme for so long eee, prompt: lonliness, though he fucking tries not to the moron
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:55:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25112725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PersonyPepper/pseuds/PersonyPepper
Summary: Child surprise, the djinn, all of it. All of it.When in reality, Geralt’d been the one to involve himself with Duny’s aid, and the djinn; they’d been his wishes, how he could’ve ever blamed his bard for it, he doesn’t know.And on the mountain, sat beside him, coaxing Geralt to come with him to the coast.“Why don’t we leave tomorrow? Head off to the coast— life is too short; do what pleases you while you can.”Even going so far to wrap it in awkward humour to appeal to his emotion-rejecting witcher, who’d only sat there like he hadn’t even heard him.Geralt finds that the only thing worse than loneliness, is regret.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Geralt Whump Week 2019-2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2084442
Comments: 22
Kudos: 410





	There it Goes Again (A Song To Break His Silent Heart)

Geralt’s hair whips at his face, the winds angry as if in reflection of his own temper. Silence surrounds him, the image of Yennefer turning her back to him fresh in his mind. His shoulders finally slump in defeat, a pain heavy in his chest, fighting to get out, to be expressed, to ruin everything in its wake.

His roar echoes through the mountains, a sound of agony and loss as much as it’s of rage, taking the last of his anger and leaving him boneless and empty. He wants to get back down the mountain, give Roach a pet and listen to Jaskier’s mindless chatter.

Only, Jaskier isn’t there when Geralt finally finds enough energy to walk back to the camp. The dwarves are gone, no one left, actually. The only thing that waits for him is a dagger shoved into the dirt, one he’d gotten for Jaskier in Velen, decorated with thread the same color as his eyes.

Geralt falls to his knees in front of it, head bowed and fists resting on his lap, grieving, wondering how he lost everyone in a single, cursed day. Should’ve listened to his bard, stayed the fuck away from this contract.

He sighs. His body feels too heavy, in fact, everything feels surreal, as if it’s just a nightmare. The witcher runs a hand through his hair before finding his feet.

So this is it, then, it seems.

He growls and rips the blade out of the ground, sheathing it on his belt before adjusting his swords on his back. There’s no point in lingering.

~~

Roach’s hooves are an even sound beside him. The bugs buzz, lazy under the searing sun.

_Clip, clop, clip, clop._

She stares at him. He can’t meet her eyes. She snorts in annoyance. 

“What?”

She glares at him. Surely, horses can’t glare.

“It’s not like I can go find him. He could be anywhere.”

She doesn’t bother replying. 

Geralt sighs, walking beside her as they make their way back to the traven. Jaskier’ll be there, probably flirting, drinking. It’ll be fine. He’ll only have to look at him and the bard will be back to his side, yapping on about nothing. 

It’ll be fine.

~~ 

It’s not fine.

They tell him that no bard’s passed through the traven since they’d been here to talk to Borsch. He grunts a thanks and doesn’t linger, worry creeping into his chest.

As he leaves, a child tugs at his sleeve.

“Are you Geralt of Rivia?” His acid-yellow eyes stare into her browns as he mutters a yes. He watches her face twist into a frown, anger shining in her eyes.

“You hurt my friend.” He doesn’t have the time for this. He guides Roach through the streets, her reins in his hands as the child follows. “He cried because of you when I asked why he was upset.”

This makes Geralt pause, curiously looking down at her face, scrunched in anger, tears in brimming in her eyes. “He?”

“Yes. Jas.” Jas. Jaskier.

“He was here?” The child pauses, scuffing her foot in the dirt

“No.”

“I can smell your lie.”

“He said not to tell you, so I’m not telling you.” The child runs off, her footsteps as heavy as his heart.

Jaskier had been here, not dead off some cliff. Good.

~~ 

He doesn’t go to look for him, obviously. Jaskier had left for a reason, and Geralt’s actually quite happy that he’s not burdened by a companion.

He travels much faster, now. All the more to get farther away from the mountains.

His mind wanders back to Yennefer, her violet eyes so sharp, filled with betrayal.

“I’ve really messed up, haven’t I, Roach?” The only person who’d liked him, bedded him without disgust and had let him stay in bed well after their coupling.

He sets up camp, still in the middle of fuck-all, forests surround either side of him. The sun set hours ago; they’d been walking for nearly two days without a stop, eager to get away from woefield, wanting to leave the place far behind him and simply fucking move on.

Of course, as he lays on his bedroll that night, things are not that easy.

He groans as he closes his eyes, remembering easy smiles after nights of fucking, exhausted and entirely conent. His hand trails down to adjust his cock, squeeze it in an attempt to relieve some pressure.

The gentle squeeze proves to be unsurprisingly unsatisfactory. He unbuttons his trousers, his palm carefully running over his cock in his smalls, thinking of violet eyes staring into his own, soft slopes of breasts, nipples turned hard in arousal, imagines himself kissing down pale legs, pressing his lips to a flushed cock, a distinctly masculine voice groaning as the cock into his mouth. Blue eyes peer down at him, flushed, lips swollen.

_Fuck_.

What the _fuck_ was that?

He chokes out a small Yenn as he spills over his hands, his mind evidently on someone else.

He sighs and goes boneless in his bedroll, feeling entirely wrung out. Whatever it was, he doesn’t have the energy to think of it now.

Single tears drip out the corners of his eyes as he stares at the stars, twinkling amongst each other as if to mock his own loneliness.

~~

Another day of walking. 

He dispatches a band of drowners, heads bobbing in the mucky water next to their bodies.

Geralt stares. Even dead monsters have more company than he does.

What does it matter. He walks over twisting roots, the rotting forest floor sinking beneath his feet as he carries his swords back to camp, eyes as black. “Jaskier,” he growls, clutching his bleeding arm, only he finds himself without a reply.

Hm. Right.

The wound needs stitches, though he feels so exhausted he feels he can’t keep standing, much less sew a careful line of sutures. He manages to clean his sword, though Vesesmir would still be disappointed by his half-assed actions. 

Fuck it all.

~~

Silence leaves him on edge. He can hear too much, unable to concentrate on just one thing. Roach’s clops, the fabric of his clothes swishing against each other with each of his steps. The dull hum of bees he’d seen half a day go, still haunting him with their noise.

He can’t _stand_ it. Nothing works, his mind wandering. He couldn’t have imagined missing Jasksier’s chatter, his lute strings twanging with each tune before launching into some drivel or another, giving him something to listen to without actually listening.

He’s loved Yennefer with everything he is, though she’d never been a constant in his life, and yet, it’s Jasksier whose absence feels like a punch to the gut from a black-eyed devil.

He knows how his bard’d felt on that first day in Posada.

His skin feels tight with guilt, reflecting on his relationship with Jaskier. Every blame he’d placed on his shoulders when all his friend had done for him was try and talk reason into him right before each misstep Geralt’d taken.

_Child surprise, the djinn, all of it._ All of it. When in reality, Geralt’d been the one to involve himself with Duny’s aid, and the djinn; they’d been his wishes, how he could’ve ever blamed his bard for it, he doesn’t know.

And on the mountain, sat beside him, coaxing Geralt to come with him to the coast. 

_“Why don’t we leave tomorrow? Head off to the coast— life is too short; do what pleases you while you can.”_ Even going so far to wrap it in awkward humour to appeal to his emotion-rejecting witcher, who’d only sat there like he hadn’t even heard him.

Geralt finds that the only thing worse than loneliness, is regret.

~~ 

The wound leaves a jagged, raised scar on his skin.

The tavern’s bustling as he walks through the door. It reeks, too bright, too loud. But he’s come here for one thing and he needs a room upstairs.

He wants to get piss drunk and forget Jaskier’s heart-broken voice, his miserably fallen face. Wants to forget that there’s no one to care for him. Forget that there had been someone, and he’d driven them away with a few careless words.

He takes another draw of his ale, knowing it’ll do nothing for him. A vial of white gull waits for him in his pocket.

He feels on edge, more than usual; he isn’t quite sure why. He downs the last of his drink, some bard waxing poetic about the audience, getting them worked up. Unsubtle. Jaskiers would’ve—

He throws a few coins to the barmaid for his drink and goes upstairs to his room, stripping off his shirt and changing into a set of cotton pants. White gull burns his throat as he sips it, relaxing as he feels its toxicity work through him. Ridiculous, how something so bad could feel so good.

A lazy hand runs up his torso, feeling creasings of muscle under his calloused hands, coming to rest over a nipple as he takes another sip of the potion, a slow breath escaping his lips. 

His breath hitches as he pinches it ever so softly, head thrown back as he does the same to the other. The bottle is set down, one hand playing with his nipple as the other trails down his chest, to his cock, half-hard in his pants, running his hand over the tip of it, arching into the touch. 

He has no idea why he’s being so slow, so… sensual. Just knows that it feels good, paying attention to his body, his hand trailing up to his lips, sucking them in as his other hand plays with his cock.

A gentle moan leaves his lips, his spit-wet fingers wrapping around his cock as he fists it lazily, taking a draw of white gull.

“Jask—” dammit, he’s supposed to be forgetting about him, but the bard haunts him constantly, it seems, more than Yennefer even. He doesn’t understand why it's difficult to forget quiet laughter around a campfire, to forget that firefly look in Jaskier’s eyes when facing a “witcher-hating dickhead,” to forget long fingers wrap over his wrist to drag him though the market, to forget the scent of spicy arousal mixed with his chamomile scent every time they were forced into a tight spot. And those blue eyes, staring into his own with such care, longing that Geralt’s been too blind to see.

His throat burns as he downs the last of the white gull, certainly not enough to leave him out-of-his mind drunk, but enough to make him loose, carefree enough to let himself be dizzy with lust. He’s unsteady on his feet as he searches for oil he’d bought long, long ago, for the weeks where he and Dandelion didn’t travel together, and uncorks it hastily, groaning as his lube-slick hand wraps back around his cock.

Back against the overstuffed mattress, Geralt continues to pump his cock in lazy strokes, the other reaching underneath him run his fingers over perineum before circling his hole. It’s been so long since he’s indulged like this, relaxed with the White Gull, cock hard in his hand, playing with himself.

He’s close. Really fucking sensitive, relaxed enough to feel his hole twitch under his touch. His thumb swipes over the tip of his cock before he uses his palm to rub over his cockhead.

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ,” an entirely humiliating set of sounds escape his lips as he cums over his chest, body shuddering as he moans Jaskier’s name, loud in the small room.

He collapses onto the bed, entirely fucked out, and feeling his friend’s absence more than ever. 

_“Composing your next song?”_

_“No I’m just, uh… just trying to work out what pleases me.”_

~~

There are people everywhere, taking care of their shopping at the market, a rather large one for the town he’s in.

People talk to him with only fear, and no one looks at him if he’s scum upon their shoe. It seems Jaskier’s songs have worked well

Justs another thing he never appreciated, thanked the bard for.

He startles as someone shoves into him, bright blue eyes staring up at him in apology—

“Ah! I’m so sorry, dear sir, I didn’t—”

—before they flash with recognition.

_Jaskier._

Panic is an acrid scent that surrounds him.

He watches his friend go to turn, stepping away as if to run.

“Jaskier!”

The bard turns to him. “Right, I’m sorry— have no idea how you got here so fast, I’ll be gone, just going to the inn to get my stuff, Ger— and I, uhm,” he backs into the crowd, hands up as if trying to placate Geralt, “And I’ll be off, just— mh, I’ll shut up now, see you around, then. Or— or probably not, I’ll try not to—”

He knows why his friend’s stammering, tripping over himself to get away. Roach stares at him.

_Ruined the only good thing that Destiny has ever given you, a companion, friend… and someone to love. Fucking apologize, Geralt— no amount of apples will be able to win me over if you don’t and I’ll give you these sad fucking eyes till the end of time and—_

He grunts. A promise. To his horse, because who knows what’s best for him better? Obviously not Geralt himself.

Though, he does recognize that something wretched settles in his chest as he sees Jaskier, just beside him, something that has been listless ever since the mountain.

His hand reaches out to take Jaskier’s wrist, and the bard straightens stiffly. “Please let me go,” he mutters, and the heart Geralt claims to not have shatters in his chest at his friend’s defeated tone.

He can’t let him go. Instead, Geralt wraps his arms around him, holding him gently, but oh so close that he’s forced to bite down a purr. Jaskier is limp in the embrace, knees giving out momentarily, held up by Geralt’s arms as he finds himself.

Geralt can’t help but hold Jaskier tighter when hesitant arms wrap around his back, only to pull away when he realizes his friend’s too quiet, sniffling and the salty scent of tears.

“Jask?” Watery blue eyes stare up at him. He’s never seen Jaskier cry, always cheery, and the image makes him cold with… with _something_.

“Why are you doing this, Geralt?” The witcher feels his face twist with confusion, emotion clear on his face where it'd been a blank face. Loneliness has taken a toll on him.

“Doing this— you told me to go away, I was giving you your wish. Why’re you being so…”

Geralt grabs for words where even his bard couldn’t find any. “I missed you— love you.” And Jaskier shakes, a tremble that works his way up his legs, up his chests as his head’s throw back in a laugh, disbelief painting every inch of him.

“Are you _hearing_ yourself, Geralt? Do you not remember what happened on the mountain, at all?” Jaskier’s hands curl into fists, slow tears dripping down his face in anger rather than sadness, “And even before, you left me behind every chance you got, it’d take me days to catch up with you and you’d already be leaving town; are you _insane_? How’ve you managed to kid yourself, always knew you’re in denial about every fucking little feeling, but this? You’ve got it wrong. You might love someone— but it’s certainly not me.”

Geralt knows, nights spent agonizing how he’s treated his bard when he’d done no ill to him— Geralt, who was known to be benevolent, only killing monsters that were mindless, taking no coin from those who couldn’t afford it— and yet, hurting the only human that had ever shown him kindness. He finds his words caught in his throat, a short hum escaping his lips as he tries to speak them.

Jaskier laughs another dry, pained laugh, muttering, “‘s what I thought you’d say,” before turning his back to Geralt and walking back into the crowd. 

_He’ll only have to look at him and the bard will be back to his side, yapping on about nothing._

How stupid he’s been. 

“Jaskier, wait— Jaskier!” The townsfolk stare at him, the scent of fear and the looks of hatred rising as he chases after his bard. “For Melitele’s sake, just talk to me—” 

“Do you have half an idea how many times I’ve asked that of you, Geralt? When you were sick, when you were upset, after your fucking child surprise! Do you remember what you did?” The bard’s voice stops him in his tracks, _furious_ eyes staring into him, “you ignored me. Pretended I didn’t fucking exist, like all I was was an inconvenience for you to shove away.” The words are spit with such anger— gods, Geralt can’t think, shame makes him tense, and witcher control keeps his tears at bay. 

“I’m so sorry— I didn’t realize how much you meant to me till I—” his voice is quiet, as quiet as it can be in his low growl, so hesitant, vulnerable for all to hear. “I miss— Gods, I _need_ you, Jaskier.”

He hates it, knows how many people can hear him, knows how they see him, shocked at his emotions— he can hear the rumours already, how Geralt of Rivia is an excellent actor, cunning, vile in his attempts to lure his innocent human bard back, monster hunting a prey with manipulation… He startles as he feels a hand on his shoulder. 

Jaskier looks at him, chin tilted up, cheeks lined with tears but oh how they only add to the bravery on his face.

“How do you know?”

“How do I know what?” 

“That you need me.”

He could list a million reasons. But reasons are not what Jaskier needs, doesn’t need a list of why he’s a good travel companion, or why he’s a good friend, even.

“When I knew I’d lost you, I felt…” this is hard. This is new, feelings that he’s buried, he digs out himself and they— he can’t do this. He can’t do this.

He feels a soft squeeze on his shoulder, Jaskier’s expression expectant, patient. “I felt so lost. Without your careless touches, and your… words. I thought to myself, there’s more than one hell, and that’s life without you, Jask— I felt so… so lonely. I’m so sorry—”

He takes his friend’s hand into his own, earnest eyes looking into his blues, “—for how I treated you. You were to blame for none of those things.” Remembering the mountain is painful, for the both of them, but Geralt understands that they need to talk of it. “I was lonely without your company, and it took losing you to realize it.”

He watches as Jaskier’s eyes melt from anger to… something warm that Geralt can’t quite name. Relief makes his knees nearly give as Jaskier wraps an arm around him, pulling him into a hug as he mutters, “come here dear friend, I’ve missed you,” his other cupping the witcher’s neck.

It feels good. Like coming home that only returning Kaer Morhen feels like. It feels safe.

He wraps his hands around his friend’s waist, holding him, caring fuck all of who sees.

“You’ve a lot to make up for, you bastard,” Jaskier mutters, voice low by his ear.

“I know,” he mumbles, and he knows he’d do anything to keep Jaskier by this side.

**Author's Note:**

> For Geralt Whump Week ( @geraltwhumpweek )! Let me know what you thought!!
> 
> Title’s from Empty Plates by Robert Hallow and The Holy Men.
> 
> [Come say hi on tumblr (@persony-pepper)!](https://persony-pepper.tumblr.com)


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